


thought that love was a kind of emptiness

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [100]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Chronologically post-Aperitif, Daddy Issues, Feanor is mostly just clueless...MOSTLY, Gen, Title from a Florence + the Machine Song, and the letter fic just preceding, part of Mae's downward spiral of 1849 arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-08 17:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: After the interrupted dinner at Indis's, Maglor is in for an uncomfortable evening.





	thought that love was a kind of emptiness

There is a particular silence that descends on my father when he is angry. I know it, and Maedhros knows it, and I wonder sometimes if I prefer his loud rages, his scathing expressions of disdain, to the set jaw and thundercloud brow.

Of course, this leaves nothing for either Maedhros or I to do, except to beg off on account of fatigue and retire early. We have had supper—Indis lays a very fine table, though I can’t say so aloud. As to our present state, no explanation is a pleasant one. Athair came to see Grandfather Finwe, I suppose, and since he couldn’t, he satisfied himself with insulting Uncle Fingolfin and Uncle Finarfin, and, from the looks of it, Maedhros.

Maedhros is chewing his lips like he is very young again, and his eyes are flitting nervously to Athair as we climb the steps. Our house-maid greets us. Maedhros hands her his hat and gloves, turning quickly so that he can take Athair’s, but Athair isn’t looking at him. Athair hangs his hat upon a peg himself.

(We fought this morning, Maedhros and I. Or—to be more exact, I spoke cruelly, and he blushed and was silent.

All in the course of doing me a favor, too! I had a snarl in my hair after washing it, and he stopped in the middle of dressing, fresh from his own bath, to help me untangle it. He had not yet buttoned his shirt, and in the looking glass, I saw the plum-darkness of a bruise on his exposed collarbone. I am not an _absolute_ innocent, and it was not difficult to recognize the outline of a mouth in its shape.

“ _Disgusting_ ,” I said, jerking the comb away from him, and he flinched.)

“Athair,” Maedhros says, his voice ringing like an ill-struck key in the hollow of our cold dark house, “Is there anything—”

“Maglor,” Athair says, “You played well tonight.”

He said as much to me at Grandfather’s; I do not know why he is saying it again.

I realize he is waiting for me to acknowledge his words, so I nod my thanks.

“Maedhros,” Athair says, and I can see from the corner of my eye that Maedhros has gathered himself up as if for a leap—but of spirit, not of limb. “I do not need anything but sleep. Is there a room good enough to be slept in?”

“Yes, of course,” my brother answers. “There is always a room—”

“I shall join you for breakfast,” Athair says. He does not look at either of us, still remote in his wrath, but I think Maedhros feels the slight of it more than I do.

_Disgusting._

I must, even when I am right, learn to mind my tongue better.

Athair disappears upstairs.

I run my hands through my hair. Whenever Athair is gone, I am bold again, and now I can admit myself vexed. We were having a pleasant evening with the family he spurns. We were—

Maedhros has not moved, and my own breath stills like a frightened rabbit. It is blasphemy to protest, to so much as _pout_ against Athair’s deep grievance with his half-relations.

That, and Maedhros looks like he is dying.

“Maitimo,” I whisper—a concession in itself, for our family names were, according to Athair, to be left at home. “Are you unwell?”

He fidgets at last, straightening his cuffs. The palm of one hand is red.

“I am perfectly well, Macalaure.” He whispers my name with a flicker of a smile: _see, I am being wicked, too, breaking our rule_. “And Athair is right. You played perfectly.”

“Must have been, to make Athair enjoy an English harp.”

We cannot hold the moment. We are both unhappy. Maedhros’s eyelashes beat against his cheeks.

(They fought at Christmas. Celegorm and I were out venturing together, for once in truce, and we returned to find Athair storming out of the parlor with his fists clenched. Maedhros remained behind, his cheeks flushed darkly. Celegorm said half his name; I, for once, said nothing.

 _Come away, and let him be_ , Mother told us, as if we were children.)

“You should have a little tea before bed,” I say now, sounding a little like Mother myself.

“Christ, no.” He sighs. “I don’t need tea.”

If I wanted to be cruel, I would say, _what, then—you need scotch whiskey?_ But Maedhros is not Celegorm, and so will not strike back. When did I begin to treat him like an opponent, anyway? A brother to be goaded?

Perhaps when I was first shocked by his change in manner early in the year; more likely when he declined to confide in me about the matters of his heart and health. I am jealous; we are all a little jealous, in our family.

_Except him._

Breakfast is a vastly improved affair. Athair is up early, walking briskly about the halls, until I sleepily think myself in Formenos again. His footsteps sound the same, but the city air smells different, even behind closed doors and windows. I open my eyes knowing I am not at home.

While we dine, he recounts in his brisk, staccato way, what has gone on since Christmas. Celegorm is teaching Huan to hunt squirrels, and swears he’ll have enough pelts for a coat. Athair thinks this a waste of time, since what good is thin squirrel skin? The twins are making progress with their sums, though not with their handwriting. Curufin, though. Curufin has forged his first knife, and hammered out several plates and cups besides—

“The cup,” Athair says proudly, slivering the rest of his ham, “I should not be ashamed to drink from.”

Maedhros swallows down his tea. “How is Caranthir?” he asks. He is looking at his plate, which keeps me a little unsettled. Even though this habit has been in force for several months, I can never become unused to Maedhros’s usual way. His bright, attentive gaze would make anyone believe himself the wittiest, most eloquent, most scintillating storyteller.

 _Maglor Kanafinwe Cillian_ , I chide myself, tacking on every one of my names to emphasize the deplorability of my conduct. _To think that you snapped at him!_

_To think that I will again._

“Caranthir?” Athair lifts a brow, and I am brought back to the present conversation. “Oh, he is well enough, I suppose. Very quiet.”

“But we all have our moments of—stillness, and reclusion.” Maedhros’s cup clinks against his saucer. “I am sure it does not signify any lack of growth or—or affection.”

“Perhaps not,” Athair answers dubiously. “Well, this has been a fine meal, and your mother will be glad to know I have seen you.” He pauses, then smiles quickly at us. “Are there any messages you wish conveyed?”

Maedhros draws in a breath, and looks as if he does not let it out.

“Nothing urgent,” I say, trying to play the courtly son for once. “Maedhros writes frequently, and I will try to do better myself.”

“Hmm.” Athair turns away, almost as if—embarrassed, but I do not think that can be so. We both rise, careful not to scrape the legs of our chairs, and we follow him out to where his coach waits.

“Goodbye, Athair,” I say, clasp his hands and letting him kiss my forehead as he always does.

Maedhros is shuffling his boots beside me. What has come over him? Athair is no longer in a foul mood. Athair is—

“Oh, Maedhros,” Athair says, over his shoulder. Maedhros springs to attention at _that_.

“Yes, sir?”

Athair lays his coat on the coach seat and turns back. “I meant to tell you—to tell both of you. I think there is no reason for you to come to Formenos before Grandfather’s birthday celebration in June. Do not trouble yourselves with an additional journey.”

He takes Maedhros’s hands in his and kisses his forehead.

Maedhros stoops a little to let him. When Athair lets go of his hands, they fall almost limp.

“Until June, then!” Athair calls. The glass-paned door rattles shut after him. The horses canter away.

We are left alone, and I am relieved. Shameful it may be, but I am always relieved when Athair’s whirlwind leaves behind our (relative) calm.

I turn to Maedhros, and he turns away so sharply my mouth hangs open, the words I was about to speak forgotten. His hand dashes up towards his eyes, but I cannot see what its purpose there is.

When he faces me again, there are no tears in his eyes. Is _that_ what I suspected?

“Come inside, Maglor,” he tells me. He does not touch me. No hand on my shoulder; no gentle nudge. “We’ve a whole day ahead of us.”

He stays out late that night.


End file.
